


I Still Miss You

by suchanoldcliche



Series: OTP: Steal You Away From the Storm [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Angst, BuckyXan, Decoration Day, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Memorial Day, More angst, Non-Canonical Character Death, trying to cope with death, world war ii au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanoldcliche/pseuds/suchanoldcliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's his first Memorial/Decoration Day without his would-be husband, and Xan isn't taking it well. However, sometimes the only relief one finds in the midst of tragedy is dregging up old memories. But given Xan's history with self-destructive habits, is that really the wisest of decisions?</p>
<p>**Set in the Just A Dream verse**</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Still Miss You

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're wondering what my Just A Dream fic is, you can find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3399746
> 
> Happy Memorial Day...????

**29 May 1944**

Eyelids flutter before a soft yawn breaks the silence that blankets the darkened bedroom. A young man rubs at his eyes as he rolls over, face pressed into the shoulder of a sleeping form sprawled out beside him. He keeps his eyes closed as he rests a hand on the chest, a small smile curling his lips as he snuggles closer, the arm of his companion tightening around him. He’s comfortable like this. Content. Being pressed up against a warm body… It’s lulling him back to sleep. However, as he’s slipping unconscious, a face comes to mind. A face with a crooked smile, messy brown hair, and bright blue eyes.

He jolts awake faster than he would have if someone had splashed him with cold water. A hand instinctively lifts to the dog tags around his neck as tears, hot and fat, burn his eyes and threaten to spill over. Him. How long has it been since Xander’s thought of Him?

Wait. What’s today? It’s the last Monday in May, isn’t it? The 29th? God, if he’s right, that means today’s Memorial Day.

Which means… Oh God.

For years, Memorial Day (it’s still strange to him, calling it that; he grew up referring to it as Decoration Day) was just a day to pay his respects to soldiers who had fallen in battle. He didn’t have much of a personal connection with the day because he didn’t know of anyone who’d been a soldier, nor did he know of many people who lost someone overseas. His mother was an immigrant from Spain, and as far as he knows, his family over there weren’t soldiers, either.

This year is different.

Xan pushes himself up and away from his guest, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as he reaches down to grab his robe off the floor. Just as he’s about to stand and put it on, he hears a quiet groan and feels the bed shift. “Where you goin’?” comes a hoarse, tired voice. “You okay?”

The boy slides the silken blue around his shoulders before standing, quickly tying it in front before running a hand through his hair. “Yeah.” He’s never been good at lying, but this guy hardly knows him. Maybe he won’t notice the tremor in his voice. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

The diamond ring on his finger sparkles in the light flooding in through the windows. Xan’s eyes are fixated on that shine as he pads across his apartment towards the room he swore he’d never go into. Not after moving everything in. He’s pretty sure the place is still in boxes, considering he hasn’t even opened the door in months.

No, fuck this. If he’s gonna go in there, he’s gonna need some help.

The boy makes a detour through the kitchen, grabbing himself a bottle of whiskey and taking a long swig of the liquid courage. It’s almost amusing to him when he thinks about how much he’s changed. How similar he is to that man he was when He first came into his life.

God, if He came strolling into the apartment and saw him like this, what would He say? What would He do? Would He be ashamed of Xan for sleeping around? For trying to fill the aching chasm in his chest with sex, drugs, and alcohol? For losing himself, just like he lost Him? Would He turn around and walk right back out, or would He stay?

Who knows?

After another few swigs, Xan finds himself sitting cross-legged on the floor of a room littered with boxes. He has a photo album in front of him and he can’t stop smiling. “I remember this,” he says to no one, lifting a pair of tickets from a shoe box. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 1935. I begged you to go see it with me because James Cagney was in it, and you know how much I love James Cagney. Took some convincing, but you came along in the end. I was so in love with you already. Wonder if you knew…

“Oh God. 1939. I took you to see three different films that year. It was so much fun, though, watching you react to them.” He sets the tickets in his hand into the box before picking up two for 17 March 1939. “This one was a real good one, huh? Shirley Temple… That girl’s adorable. Movie tore my heart out, though, let me tell ya. Tryin’a find her dead father in all those hospitals?” He shakes his head. “Couldn’t stop cryin’.”

The next couple hours are full of this. Full of Xander seated on the floor of an otherwise empty room, talking aloud to himself as though his late boyfriend was seated with him. For the first time since he heard about His death, he actually laughs. Some of the memories are hard, sure, but the more he drinks, the easier it becomes. Before long, he’s lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, his eyes focused on the engagement ring on his finger.

“David’s nothin’ like you, but he’s a good guy. We been friends for a few months. Jake was… well. I’m glad he ended up movin’ to Chicago after all. You were right about ‘im. ‘Course, you’re usually right about people. I just ‘ave way too much faith in ‘em, I guess.” He smiles, his hand resting on his chest. “I’m proud of you, you know. For bein’ a hero an’ all. Always knew you were one. Now everyone does. Even the angels.”

“Knock, knock.” The door creaks open, revealing a man with his arms folded and a soft smile on his face, shoulder pressed against the doorframe as he looks down to Xander. “You never came back.”

“I know,” Xan says without looking back at him. “Sorry. Lost track of time, I guess.”

The man’s smile fades when he notices the bottle of whiskey, now almost entirely empty. “That was half full last night, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, so?”

“You been drinkin’ this whole time? That’s not—”

“What?” Xan snaps, sitting up. “Not good for me?”

“No. Especially since you ain’t been eatin’ much. You’re gonna kill yourself like that.”

“I’m fine, Dave.”

“Oh yeah? Then why d’ya look sicker than a dog, huh?”

“Do you even know what today is?” Xan shoots him a dirty look, then gets to his feet and quickly puts everything back into boxes. Or… actually, he’s more throwing things than anything else. The alcohol in his system is making him uncoordinated and sloppy, and because of that, he can hardly stand without wobbling and his aim is very, very off. So off, in fact, that as Xan is throwing a picture frame at one of the boxes, it hits the wall instead and shatters.

He’s in hysterics before the glass hits the floor.

“I HATE YOU.” He falls to his knees, his hands bracing his weight in front of him. “You were supposed to COME BACK. We—we were gonna get MARRIED.” He slams his fist into the wooden floor, his tears burning his eyes until the whites of them turn bright red.

“Hey, hey,” Dave coos, getting to his knees beside Xan and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay—”

“NO, it’s NOT.” The boy shoves Dave away and tries to get to his feet again, but he can’t. He isn’t stable enough. “I can’t do this without him. I can’t. I…”

“Yes, you can. I know… God, I know it must be hard. I can only imagine how hard it is for you, today of all days. But he wouldn’t want you to—”

“I don’t give a FUCK what he wanted.”

“Yes, you do. Come on, Xan, you love Barnes—”

SMACK.

He can’t control himself. One second, he’s trying to remember how to breathe. The next, his hand is flying through the air until it connects with the side of David’s face, leaving the imprint of a hand behind. Xan’s eyes are aflame as he yells, “Don’t you EVER say his name around me, got it? You don’t know a DAMN THING about what he and I went through. You have NO CLUE how I feel, so don’t fucking try that shit with me.”

“You wear his fucking dog tags everywhere you go,” Dave continues, unfazed by the slap. “You have a shrine in your bedroom to him. You kept everything when you moved outta that old place. And I’ve asked you how many times to go on a date with me?”

“The fuck does that—”

“You keep shooting me down ‘cause you’re still in love with him. And you know what, I get it. I do. Which is why I haven’t pushed you or nothin’. But God, Xan, you gotta wake up. It was great while it lasted, but your boy, he ain’t comin’ back—”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT.” And then the truth comes out. Teary-eyed, hysterical, voice sounding octaves higher than it should be, Xan moves away from the bartender and shakes his head vehemently. “Go. Just… Just go. Grab your clothes and get outta here.”

“No. You’re jus’ gonna use if I go now. Xan, I know you—”

“I said LEAVE.” He reaches for the nearly empty whiskey bottle and hurls it in Dave’s direction. Once again, his aim is terribly off, the glass shattering against the door and spreading all over the floor. “Get the fuck out of my apartment ‘fore I call the coppers. An’ don’t come back.”

The last remaining string keeping him sane and afloat snaps the moment he hears the front door slam shut.

No matter how loud his music gets, how much alcohol he consumes, how high he flies, he doesn’t—he can’t—get his soldier’s face out of his mind’s eye. All he sees is Him. He doesn’t bother going into work that day, ‘cause really, he’s an absolute mess and he doesn’t want to see David if he can help it. In fact, he may as well quit. Not like he’s really getting on there, anyway.

It isn’t until he’s passing out, his arms wrapped around the toilet and his cheek resting on the cool porcelain, sweat dripping down his neck and his back, that it slips out. The words are quiet. Barely audible. 

“I miss you, mi sol. God, do I miss you. I’ll never love a man like I loved you, I know that. I hope you’re not mad at me for all this.” He closes his eyes and exhales shakily. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ll always love you. Don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me. I’m so proud of you, my soldier, my everything, God, you’re—”

Somehow, vomiting into the toilet in the middle of his meltdown makes him feel even worse, but he doesn’t have long to linger on that, because once he’s done, his body taps out.

And the moment he falls unconscious, he swears he can feel those strong arms around him again. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and Xan swears he’d die without these moments.

Because how’s he supposed to carry on without the man who embodied his hope, his strength, his courage? How’s he supposed to live when his other half is cold and six feet below?

Happy Memorial Day, indeed…


End file.
